The Frozen Dead
by FantasyFoSho
Summary: Meet North. All his life, he's wanted nothing more than to leave home and embark on a grand adventure to see the world. When he wakes up one morning, his dream becomes reality, but not in the way that he expected. A comedic take on zombies in the world of Frozen, featuring the cast of Frozen as survivors of the apocalypse (coming soon).
1. Chapter 1

Hello reader, my name is North, and I am scared.

I was just a regular guy, once. A peasant, if you want to get all technical about it. I was born on a vegetable farm in the Southern Isles with my three brothers to loving parents. We grew potatoes for a living. It was a peaceful, if boring life. I'm sure you're dying to hear all about the saucy details, but I'm afraid I don't have much time for elaborations. We grew potatoes. And then we sold them. That's it. That part of the tale is over. Donezo.

This story that I'm going to tell you, ongoing, hopefully, is about what happened after I finally decided to leave my home. Before I begin, though, I have something to say to a particular subset of people who may be reading this. If you, too, are a potato farmer thinking about ditching your happy, peaceful, and boring life at home, please banish those evil thoughts and get back to work. Otherwise, your family will try to eat you. Trust me on this. I've got "experience".

Okay, so lets start with Day Zero.

I'm in my bed, and the sun had just broken on the horizon. My mousy brown hair is tangled because of how fidgety I am in my sleep. I do a lot of rolling around; curling up, stretching, even dancing. My bed is pushed up against the wall so sometimes, if I'm dancing in my dreams, I'd be banging my head against that aforementioned wall in real life, annoying the other inhabitants of my humble abode. My brothers hated me, for that, and probably because I have the coolest name out of all of us.

My mother is a cartographer. She just goes crazy about maps and directions and stuff. My father is a bit of a pushover, so when she got pregnant, mother had a say in pretty much everything and father let her do whatever she wanted without a complaint. She named us after the cardinal points on a compass.

I'm North, the youngest. I have brown hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. I'm twenty now, but on day zero I was nineteen. My older brothers are South, East, and West. Like I said earlier, we were from the Southern Isles, which makes me "North of the Southern Isles." Pretty stupid, right? Don't worry, you can agree with me. Just don't say anything of the sort to my mother, otherwise you'd be dead to her. Make her angry enough and you might end up, well… actually dead! Push her beyond angry and she just might try and eat you.

But let's get back to the name.

You try introducing yourself to people with my name and I guarantee they'll be all like "But we're in the Southern Isles haw haw!" or "Everyone is North of the Southern Isles haw haw!" or the classic "Um, no, _idiot_, if you actually looked at a map you'd see that we're literally thirty seven degrees north of east, go educate yourself cabbage brain". Then you would be like "No, North is my name." and they'd look at you all funny and then walk away and never speak to you again. Then you'd run to your room, crawl into your bed, assume the fetal position and then cry yourself to sleep. At 10 AM in the morning. Yeah. Such was my curse.

I'm writing this in the middle of the night. There are people looking things outside trying to eat me, and sometimes they'll lumber by and mutter something about brains and I'll get freaked the heck out and lose track of where I was. That_ just_ happened, so gimme a second while I backtrack.

Okay so I was lying on my bed, my hair was tousled, and I yawned. I stretched. I brushed my teeth. I wore blah, did blah. Said blah. Most of that day was unimportant, so I'm just going to give you the essentials.

Essentially, I overslept.

I hate hate hated that my destiny, my _purpose_, was to grow potatoes. I refused to believe that that was what I was meant to do. My father trained me to take up the family business, but the family business was boring, and I had three older brothers who were more than willing to take up the torch. So prior to day zero I had made up my mind that I was done. I was peace-ing out. I was going to disappear into the night and never be heard from again except through rumor, tales about the legendary traveler from the South. Slayer of dragons and women alike. Extraordinary in every single way.

I had my bags packed, I'd shaved my pathetic facial hair, and as a sign of rebellion, I replaced the bowl of potatoes on our family table with a bunch of rotten ones, because I was stupid like that. My family was out and about at the time so I didn't expect any opposition to my leaving. It was around five in the afternoon. I wanted to wait until dark, but it wasn't going to be for another few hours so I decided to take a nap. I ended up waking at seven AM in the morning.

Day zero.

I got out of my bed, did that stuff I told you about, and walked into the living room. My family was there. They were acting all funny. You know, kinda like drunkards at a tavern. All lurching around making funny noises with their mouths. Drunkards don't try to eat you, though. Not usually. Not like my family did. Also, I noticed that the bowl of rotten potatoes was empty.

As you would expect, I, like most people threatened with being eaten alive, bolted right out the door. I couldn't get the potatoes out of my head. Why was the bowl empty? Surely my family, who lived and breathed potatoes, could tell if one was past its due by date. I kept running, past my school, past the tavern, past the town hall, all the way to the port. Everywhere, people were eating other people, and basically, it was all my fault. I should have thrown away the potatoes.

I hop into a boat. There's a guy sitting there. His mouth is bloody and he's got a piece of meat in his mouth. He looks at me like I'm just another piece of meat so I kick the dude off the boat and set sail. I don't think about where I'm going, so I just row and row and row. I rowed my boat down some stream, kept rowing, and ended up in the sea. At this point I'm pretty much starving. That's when I notice a sack at the base of the boat. I open said sack, and lo and behold! Potatoes. I know what you're thinking. _You better not have eaten those potatoes, North! You'll turn into a zombie!_ _I'll be so disappointed in you if you did!_

Well you can tell your disappointment to suck it, 'cause I golfed those hot taters down like they were nothing. And hey, ten days later, I'm still here! Wherever "here" is. I'm in a house in some village next to a fjord. There's a castle deadsmack in the center of it. There are people eating freaks everywhere, but I'm hoping that one isolated castle is cannibal free so that's where I'm heading. Tomorrow morning, that is. I need to survive this night first. There's a dude knocking on my door so I'm gonna go check that out now.

Until next time, I guess, reader… person.

-_North of the Southern Isles_


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Reader,

It's me again.

North, remember? I'm glad you managed to find my second letter, as I have gone to great lengths to ensure that this and all future letters would be stashed somewhere the zombies couldn't get to. Right now, I'm thinking inside a dusty old tome on top of a crate in the abandoned baker's house. If you did not find this letter in the location I described then I either changed my mind or you aren't the first person to be reading it. In that case, there must be other survivors out there. Other survivors besides me, of course.

In the last letter I wrote, I ended things by saying that there was some dude knocking on my door in the middle of the night and that I was going to check on it. It's been a week since that night, and I have much to tell.

Let's start with where I left off: knocks on my door.

Technically it wasn't my door because it wasn't my house. However, because of the likelihood that the owner was either undead, dying, or deceased, I figured he or she wouldn't mind if I holed up in their place for awhile. It was mostly empty anyways, so I figured they'd abandoned ship when everyone started eating each other.

I was sitting in this old rowan chair in the bedroom. The windows had all been boarded up so that no light from inside could escape. I had a tiny candle lit on the bedside table. For most of the night, it was quiet. The dead usually just shuffled around, and unless they're right next to you, you wouldn't hear a thing. On rare occasions, they spoke, but the only word they seemed to know was "brains" or a variation of it like "brainsssss" or "blarnth".

Don't ask about the last one. I heard one zombie say it once and felt compelled to add it to the list. I'm no philosopher or great thinker, so I haven't really paid much thought to why zombies sometimes speak, or why that one zombie bucked the trend and said what it did. Maybe it was just stupid. Like me, except a zombie.

Besides the _scritch scratch_ of my pen, there wasn't much to say about the ambience of that dusty old room to get your imagination running. It was like that until past midnight when the knocking started. It came from the front door and was quite loud. After bidding you farewell, I put down my pen and paper and walked towards the source of the sound. I opened the first door, the door to the bedroom, then stopped myself. What the heck was I doing? Who cares if someone was knocking? It was probably a zombie. If I opened that door, it would eat me. But zombies have never knocked before! The hope that I wasn't alone pushed me forward. I stood in front of the door while the knocking continued.

The sequence was erratic. A few knocks, and then silence followed by a single knock, and then more silence. The knocking was coming in pairs when I reached for the handle. As I had boarded up the window earlier, I couldn't actually see who was outside, but I could hear them. My heartrate quickened as I listened in on the hush voice. "Please, please, please." it was saying. The voice sounded distinctly male, but I couldn't be so sure from behind the door. "I know someone's in there, please let me in." the person continued to plead. My fingers shook as they made contact with the cold handle. I closed my eyes, weighing the pros and cons of my impending decision.

The moral thing to do was to open up and let the stranger in and then close the door immediately. If I had weapons, an additional fifty pounds of muscle, and a epic man-beard, I could have interrogated him and intimidated him into revealing if he was bit or not, then judged if he was worthy enough to accompany me. Unfortunately, I'm as thin as a stick and often look like I'm trying to poo whenever I get angry, so the mystery man wouldn't have had much incentive to tell me any truths. I'd be putting myself in danger with very little to gain. The smart money was on leaving the door shut and letting the man fend for himself. Then again, I'm not a very smart person.

I opened the door and a man in tattered clothing stumbled in and fell onto the floor. I grabbed his flailing arms, pulled the rest of his body inside, and then stepped over him to close the door behind us. Outside, a chorus of moans rose, followed by the shuffling of feet. Great, I thought. Save a life, then get eaten as congratulations for your sense of morality. I turned to the fallen stranger.

"Hey, buddy." I said, prodding the facedown man's side with with my foot. "Are you okay?"

He turned his head to look at me. His skin was pale, almost white, with wrinkles wide enough to fit several babies inside them. His eyes were bloodshot and his grey hair was prickling with twigs and leaves and dirt. He wore many layers of clothing, their colors dull and faded. On his right shoulder was a dark red stain. _Damn_, I thought. _This guy is uglier than I am._

"I'm f-fine." He stammered. "Just a l-little tired, is all."

"Tired?" I repeated. "Long day?"

"Something like that." he replied. He turned himself over and sat upright with a grunt.

"What happened to your shoulder?" I asked, pointing out the stain.

He shrugged. "I fell."

"Onto a spear?"

He broke eye contact and scanned the room. "Something like that." he muttered again, distracted.

"You got bit." I concluded.

He looked at me harshly. "No."

"I don't believe you."

He held his palms out in the _I-swear-I'm-telling-you-the-truth_ kinda way that only liars use. "I swear on my mother's life."

"You're like eighty years old." I observed.

"Seventy two, asshole." he spat.

"Sorry."

To be perfectly honest, I was lowballing there. I'd assumed him to be ninety years old at the least and dialed the number down to avoid offending him.

"You got anything to eat?" he asked, in an attempt to change the subject.

"I have a few things." I told him. "Are you craving anything in particular?"

"Y-yes." He coughed. At that moment, he threw up on the floor, dumping black fluid onto the musty boards. I jumped away as he crawled towards me, rasping, "Brainssss."

I kicked him in the face with my boot. "I knew it!" I shouted, a stupid idea. If the zombies didn't already know I was in that house, now they were certain. I didn't care. I was too upset.

This freaking guy. I did a nice thing for him by opening the door and he didn't even have the decency to warn me that he was going to try and eat me? It's pretty much common knowledge that whenever you got bit, you were screwed. There was no getting better. The wound _might _heal, but it didn't stop the virus from infecting your brain with an uncontrollable craving for human flesh. This right here is why so many people are dead now. Or, rather, undead. But who am I to say such things? After all, it is my fault all of this is happening.

Now I'm crying. Just… give me a second.

Okay, back to the story. This guy was still crawling towards me. My kick shattered all of his teeth so he wasn't able to say much more, but it did little to stall his advance. I'm not a violent person and in this terrible world of zombies, I had but one rule: never fight, always run.

I turned on my heel and ran back to the room. I picked up my satchel, left the first letter on the table, ran back, jumped over the zombified old man, and sprinted out the door, pulling it closed behind me. I slowed once I reached the street. It was crowded with zombies, and they all turned to the sound of my feet thwacking against the cobblestone floor.

If there's one thing I learned about zombies over the course of the past few weeks, it's that they're even dumber than I am. They're attracted to noise, and the louder the noise, the stronger the attraction, especially at night when they were equally as affected by the poor visibility. I reached into my pack and retrieved a hardcover book. I lobbed it to the other side of the street, where it landed with a loud _thud!_ The majority of the zombies turned and shuffled towards it. I took a few steps back. I always expected the worst, a fine way to stay alive nowadays, and had an escape plan ready.

Visibility was poor so I stuck to the side of the buildings while my eyes adjusted. I passed two houses and turned the corner. There was an abandoned shop there that once sold textiles. The interior of it was overrun, but a ladder in the back allowed me to climb onto a roof where I had prepared a makeshift shelter, which was basically a cubbyhole made from linen and crates. The crowd of zombies shuffled after me, but I was gone before they could reach me. As far as I could tell, the undead didn't have the motor skills for complicated actions like climbing or jumping.

I sat down on the rooftop, panting. I found myself missing the warmth of the house almost immediately. The air outside was chilly. _What town was this and what on earth did they do to get themselves cursed with this weather_, I thought. In the South, it was warm all year long; perfect for growing sweet potatoes.

I sunk myself deeper into the cubbyhole. The linen drapes I had set up mitigated the wind enough for it to be manageable. I contemplated starting a fire with the few sticks I had gathered from the day before, but I did not intend to stay on that rooftop for long. The food I had with me would last for a couple days. If I started a fire at that moment, the zombies would swarm around the store and I would be trapped, doomed to choose between starving to death or feeding myself to the starved. I don't know about you, but that doesn't sound like the kind of death that simple farm boys were destined to have.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to fall asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, I witnessed three things. Something terrible. Something weird. And something _magical. _


End file.
